In Sickness and In Health
by March Hare
Summary: For Kari Kenobi's Illness Contest. A BST vignette. Holmes gets sick while Watson is away, and Nona has to care for him.


Hey everybody! Hare here, with, ummm. . . what the hell is this? I guess you could call this "Chapter Seven-and-a-Half" of BST. Set in the Brown universe, it takes place between the events of Chapters Seven and Eight. Anyway, this story is for Kari Kenobi's Illness Contest, but it's also for all you Brownies out there! This is a PWP, just pure, mindless fluff, but I hope you like it! And be sure to read the Important Author's Note at the end of the story!  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
Don't own Holmes, but if I did,  
  
In my closet, he'd be hid.  
  
I'll just use him for today,  
  
Then he'll go back right away. I promise!  
  
Enjoy!  
  
~~  
  
In Sickness and In Health  
  
A BST Vignette  
  
by March Hare  
  
~~  
  
When men become sick, they are no better than children. That is true for all men, and the legendary ones are no exemption.  
  
I suppose that I should have known better. An unseasonable cold snap, the forecast of rain on the barometer and Holmes in the final stages of an investigation spelled out disaster. It was the tail end of April, 1887, and Holmes had recently returned from his "convalescence" in Surrey, which in itself was not exactly restful. We had returned to Baker Street and spent a few days in a relative calm with no cases prevailing themselves. Watson had received an invitation to a reunion of his comrades of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and, lulled by the complacency of our situation, he decided to make the journey to Cornwall and stay for a week. Holmes and I saw him off at Victoria Station and admonished him to get drunk at least once. Watson had laughingly vowed to comply.  
  
Fate, it seems, had laid in wait for us. No sooner had we returned home from the station did Mrs. Hudson announce that a client awaited Holmes. The subsequent interview with Mr. Aberdeen, a prominent tea merchant, revealed a suspected case of fraud amongst his employees. A rather tame, commonplace case, but Holmes, for lack of anything better to do, accepted the trifle. He disguised himself as a dockworker and was able to infiltrate the smuggling ring within two days. With the aid of Gregson and his force, Holmes was able to round up the fraudulent gang after a long nocturnal stakeout. However, fickle Mother Nature had decided to respond to the dipping barometer, letting loose a violent rainstorm and drenching the entire force as they laid in wait. Holmes had returned to Baker Street very late that night, wet, shivering and exuberant, eager to report to me his success. I, on the other hand, ordered him into his room to change and listened to his triumphant recounting through the crack in his bedroom door. After issuing the necessary congratulations, I took myself to bed, secure that more villains were awaiting trial. However, a trial of a different sort awaited me the next morning.  
  
*  
  
The rain still tap-danced on the windowpane as I entered the sitting room the next morning, bearing a tray of breakfast and doctored coffee. Holmes was already up, clad in his mouse-colored dressing gown and reading one of the morning papers. I was rather surprised to see that his pipe lay untouched on the mantle; Holmes usually indulged in at least one pipe before breakfast. "Morning, Holmes," I said brightly as I deposited the clattering tray on the table, hoping that my tone would perhaps help his disposition. Like most artists, myself included, the weather sometimes had a profound effect on his mood, and I had no wish for a companion as gray and gloomy as the current sky. Holmes remained silent, his gaze fixed on the newspaper in his hands. "Good morning, Holmes," I said a bit more forcefully, waiting for a response. None was forthcoming, and I wondered what was so engaging in the paper. I came and stood behind him, but none of the articles seemed gripping enough to so arrest his attention. Glancing at Holmes, I saw that his eyes were glassy and unseeing; he was looking through the paper, not at it. His face was deathly pale, more so than his normal pallor, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. Concerned, I placed a hand on his forehead.  
  
Holmes jumped in his chair, dropping the newspaper and gasping in surprise. My hand flew away as he regarded me in shock. "Good Lord, Nona, you startled me! Could you not announce your presence rather than sneaking up on a person?" he shot at me.  
  
My surprise was quickly replaced with irritation. "I did announce my presence, Holmes, twice to be exact. You didn't hear me at all?"  
  
He shook his head and stooped for the discarded paper, but halted as a bout of coughing shook his frame. I replaced my hand on his forehead, wrinkling my nose with dismay at the report. "You've got a fever, Holmes. What are you doing out of bed?"  
  
He batted my hand away and rescued the paper from the floor. "I am perfectly fine, Nona, and having been in bed for the past seven hours, I am not sleepy in the least."  
  
"That's beside the point," I retorted. "Do you know where Watson keeps his doctor's bag?"  
  
"I believe he took it with him, my dear Nona," he said with a wheeze, beaming triumphantly. "He mentioned that his host had been rather accident- prone."  
  
So, he thought he was off the hook, did he? He should know better. Normally, I would have left it be, but that cough worried me. With the lack of a stethoscope, I did what my mother had done when my father was sick: without bothering to think too much, I sat myself on Holmes' lap and pressed my ear against his shirt.  
  
"Nona!" he fairly yelped. "What the devil are you-?"  
  
I seized his shoulders and didn't budge. It was like embracing a furnace. "Shut up and breathe, Holmes, this is bothering me. Take a deep breath." He finally caught on and complied, his hands gripping the chair arms as he inhaled and exhaled. "Again," I commanded, and he obeyed, his breath dissolving into another bout of coughing. There was a definite rattle there, and in this medically-deficient age, I didn't want it to get any worse. "Once more," I said, although I had already made my diagnosis. I didn't want to move. I was far too comfortable, nestled in his lap, my head resting against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. All I needed was for him to wrap his long arms around me, and then it would be just perfect. . .  
  
With a start, I returned to myself and hastily scrambled off his legs. "I don't like the sound of that, Holmes," I said imperiously, fighting down my blush. God, what was I thinking??  
  
Holmes crossed his arms uncomfortably. "I am fine, Nona, and would appreciate it if you cease your fussing!"  
  
"You're definitely wheezing, Holmes, and I don't want it becoming pneumonia or bronchitis. We'd have to telegraph Watson and spoil his vacation. So, you need to-"  
  
"I fail to see how you can properly diagnose the situation," he protested, arms still crossed. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was pouting. "You have no medical degree of any kind."  
  
"Perhaps not," I retorted, "But I- had a father and two older brothers who caught just about every illness there was." He wanted to be stubborn, that was fine. But I was a Brown and, as my father was fond of saying, a Brown could out-stubborn the Devil himself. "Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, you need to go to the facilities and take a bath, as hot as you can stand it. The steam will help to clear your lungs. After half an hour in the tub, I want you to go to your room, change back into your bedclothes and get in bed. I'll bring some tea up."  
  
"And if I refuse?" His voice held a note of challenge.  
  
In response, I placed my hands of the chair arm and leaned forward slightly. "I will be back in five minutes with a pair of scissors. If you are still here, I will assume that you are too sick to comply with my instructions and I will do it myself."  
  
His fever-bright eyes went wide as he contemplated the rather un-Victorian image of me cutting his clothes off. "You're bluffing," he scoffed.  
  
Of course I was bluffing, I could never bring myself to do such a thing. But Holmes didn't know that. All he knew was that I gave a toothy grin, reached up and exerted a bit of force on the pressure point behind his ear, murmuring, "Try me." With that final blow, I straightened and seized the untouched breakfast tray from the table, steaming out the door and down the stairs back to the kitchen.  
  
Mrs. Hudson looked up from the dishes she was washing. "Mr. Holmes not hungry, Nona-bird?" she asked, noting the tray.  
  
"Something like that," I allowed. "He's caught a cold after staying out in the rain last night. Could you make him a pot of tea?"  
  
"Of course, birdie, just let me finish these last few dishes. Put the kettle on?"  
  
I set the tray on the counter and filled a spare teakettle with water, setting it on the stovetop and stoking the fire beneath it. It had become such a routine that I hardly remembered what electric stoves were like.  
  
Remembering my threat, I turned to go back upstairs. For a moment, I contemplated the pair of kitchen scissors on the countertop, but then I thought better of it and returned to 221B empty-handed. I pushed open the door of the flat, expecting Holmes in his armchair with a jibe on his pale lips. Instead, the sitting room was devoid of life. Surprised, I turned into the hall and, finding the bathroom door closed, pressed an ear to it. Wonder of wonders, the faints sounds of splashing were heard within. Either Holmes was feeling worse than he was letting on, or he took my threat seriously. Needless to say, I hoped for the latter rather than the former.  
  
Satisfied, I detoured into Holmes' room. Dim light filtered in through the drawn blinds, casting shadows on the cluttered desk and the narrow, unmade bed. As always, newspaper photographs of famous criminals, wanted or in custody, lined the walls, along with articles telling of their exploits. Mrs. Hudson was not allowed in this room, so a thin patina of dust coated the furniture. A tall stack of thick books adorned a low nightstand near his bed. It was a dark, neglected room, and I fervently disliked it. Running a hand along the bed, I found the sheets damp with sweat. Holmes had most likely spent a restless night; it would be just like him to suffer silently rather than wake me in hopes of relief. Stripping the bed, I briskly changed the linens and fluffed the pillows, hoping that it would improve his attitude. Mission accomplished, I returned to the kitchen.  
  
As I entered, Mrs. Hudson stacked the last plate in the drying rack and turned to me. "Tea is all well and good for Mr. Holmes, Nona-bird, but you should at least eat. You'll need all of you strength if you want to nurse a man."  
  
I snickered a bit as I sat at the kitchen table and poured myself a cup of coffee. "They are a handful, aren't they?"  
  
I passed a leisurely breakfast, swapping horror stories with Mrs. Hudson as she busied herself with the tea tray, filling the teapot and stacking a pair of cups. "I believe that I'll mix in some of that fresh honey I bought at the Covent Garden market. Does he have a sore throat?"  
  
"He must," I replied as I mopped up the last bit of syrup from my plate. "The way he's coughing."  
  
Mrs. Hudson shook his head sympathetically. "Will you be telegraphing Dr. Watson?"  
  
"I don't think so, not right away. If Holmes gets any worse, I may have to. I just wish I had something to give him now." I took up the tea tray and headed or the door.  
  
"Good heavens, the aspirin!" cried Mrs. Hudson, dashing to a far cabinet and drawing out a small glass jar of white pills. "I completely forgot that I had them! Here, birdie," she placed them on the tray in my arms, "just simple aspirin, but it may help a bit."  
  
"Wonderful, Mrs. H! It'll bring down his fever at the very least. Thanks a million, you may have saved my sanity." My spirits lifted, I returned upstairs. And as I was thinking of spirits, I stopped off at the sideboard and laced the tea with a healthy dollop of straight brandy. If Nyquil could get away with alcohol in their medicine, then so could I. Stopping at Holmes' door, I shifted the tray and knocked softly. "Holmes?" I called.  
  
Silence for a moment, then a grudging, "Come in." Holmes was seated on his bed in his nightshirt, blankets drawn up to his waist, arms folded and glowering. "As you can see, Nona," he spat, "I have bathed, changed and am now bedridden like a good prisoner."  
  
"Glad to hear it, Holmes," I replied cheerily, trying to ignore that the slanting bars of light really did make him look like a prisoner. I set the tray on the nightstand, dislodging a few books in the process, and sat on the edge of the bed. "Feel any better?" I asked, placing a hand on his forehead.  
  
"Terrible," Holmes replied, drawing away from my touch. "Are you going to fetch the thermometer and compound my discomfort?"  
  
I pursed my lips in irritation. How on earth did Florence Nightingale ever managed to fall in love with her patient? Perhaps the man had been in a coma. "I've brought you some tea," I said, pouring a cup and striving for patience.  
  
"I am not thirsty," he sulked.  
  
"Tough cookies. You need fluids, and lots of them. Unless, of course, you WANT me to telegraph Watson and ruin his reunion. . ."  
  
He glared at me and, with a grunt, accepted my offering. "Your bedside manner is deplorable," he muttered.  
  
"Your bedridden manner is worse," I retorted.  
  
He took a cautious sip and, a miracle! He broke into a sly smile. "Brandy," he said. "You are an accommodating jailer."  
  
I grinned back. "Consider it an inducement towards better behavior."  
  
He sighed at that and contemplated his teacup. "Forgive me if my manner is harsh, Nona, but I-" He faltered a bit. "I am not sick often."  
  
"It's all right, Holmes." I wasn't sure what he meant, but it was probably the closest to an apology I was going to get. "You're bored and frustrated and sick, it happens to the best of us. Tell you what: If you promise to take you medicine and drink your tea, why don't I get the chessboard and we'll try to keep the boredom at bay, okay?" He perked up at that and eagerly assented, swallowing two of the aspirin as a sign of good faith. I fetched the chessboard and pieces from the sitting room and we balanced the game on his lap as we played.  
  
One hour, two games and three cups of tea later, I glanced up from my second triumph. "Checkmate. Holmes, you're not even trying! Are you going easy on me?" Holmes suddenly looked quite green and he swayed a bit as he sat. Sweat dripped down his face and matted his hair. "Holmes?"  
  
"Nona," he croaked. He shifted violently and the board clattered to the floor, pieces flying everywhere. "The basin," he moaned, "beneath the bed. Oh, Lord, please, Nona!"  
  
Out of more instinct than anything else, I fell to my knees and blindly reached beneath his bed, luckily pulling forth a large wooden basin. I was just in time, for no sooner did I stand than I lunged forward and clutched Holmes by the shoulders as his stomach quite rudely rejected the three cups of tea it had been graciously offered. I shut my eyes tightly as I embraced his scalding, shivering frame, trying to block out the awful sound of his retching. After the spasm passed, he quickly shoved me away and rolled over, pulling the blankets tightly across him. "Holmes?" I asked hesitantly, unsure of what I should do.  
  
"Get away!" he cried hoarsely, his pride cut to the quick.  
  
My heart was twisting in sympathy. Couldn't he just let me help him? Obviously he could not, at least not right then. Taking charge of my thoughts, I decided to bury my emotions and treat this as I had treated my brothers, with efficiency and detachment. I cleaned out the basin in the bathroom and filled a porcelain washbowl with cold water. Taking it and a washcloth, I returned to the sickroom. Holmes was on his side, facing the wall, still shaking. Ruthlessly stomping on my roiling emotions, I placed the bowl next to the tea tray, removing the remaining books, and soaked the cloth in the tepid water. Wringing it out, I gingerly placed it against Holmes' sweat-soaked brow. He tensed and gasped in surprise, but slowly relaxed as the cloth moved down his face and neck. I stroked the cloth up and down his fevered face, re-soaking it from time to time, until he finally rolled onto his back and gave me access to the other side. He was absolutely silent throughout the process, the only sound his raspy breathing.  
  
After a while, he half-opened his eyes. "The chessboard," he whispered.  
  
I silenced him with my finger on his lips. "Shh, it's all right. I'll pick it up." His eyes closed again. "You know, Holmes, "I said quietly. This was always my favorite part of getting sick. Having someone, usually my mom, wipe my face when I was feeling hot. It always felt better when someone else did it." I smiled as I worked, lost in memory. "My mom would make homemade chicken soup that tasted great, but it always ended up looking like swamp water. We would have to shut out eyes when we ate it. Then the sick one would be moved into the living room, and would have the honor of picking the movie that night, you remember what I told you about movies? Anyway, the sickie always chose the movie, and no matter how much everyone else complained, they couldn't do a thing about it. Whenever I was sick, I would pick a romantic comedy, something really mushy that my brothers hated, like 'Return to Me' or something. Always liked Minnie Driver. . . Holmes?" The motion of my hand ceased when I realized that I had lost my captive audience. Holmes was fast asleep.  
  
With a mock sigh, I returned the cloth to the nightstand and studied my patient. He was as white as his sheets after his purging, but his breathing was steadier and the fever seemed to have subsided. I hoped that the aspirin had had enough time to absorb into his bloodstream. His strong features were relaxed, the lines of sickness and stress gone from his face. Weak gray sunlight lanced through his damp raven hair. He looked so innocent in slumber, so peaceful. So beautiful. I raised a hand and drew it down his face, his contented sigh mirroring my own.  
  
Just call me Florence.  
  
~~  
  
Well, that was my first sick fic, as well as my first fluff fic. I hope you enjoyed it!  
  
Important Author's Note:  
  
I'm conducting a survey. If Nona had stayed in the past, and married Holmes, would you still want him to somehow end up with Mary Russell of Beekeeper fame? So far, I have two votes for Nona (Kedi and Constance Adams) and one for Russell (Jo Halcyon). What do you think? Leave a review on my board so that we can tally up the points! (And don't just say "Nona" to make me happy! Be honest!) Keep your eyes peeled for updates!  
  
REVIEW!!!!!!! 


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